Icarus
by Verifictus
Summary: Oliver Queen has a busy week: first he confronts an international criminal organization operating in Starling City, then reconnects with an old friend, and finally tries to find a date for the Queen Winter Gala, the social event of the year (according to his mother).


**1. . . . . . .**

Oliver Queen stood in the foyer waiting for Walter. They had an important meeting with Maurice Castle, an old business competitor. An old family friend, as well. Oliver was going, not because he wanted to, or even because he had any knowledge of the deal, but because Walter thought it would create a feeling of continuity, since his father, Robert Queen, was gone. More like old friends negotiating a business deal, Walter had said, not competitors. Oliver reluctantly agreed.

As he stood fidgeting, wondering what was taking Walter so long, his mother suddenly appeared out of nowhere; it always bothered him because she was too good at it. And she had that smile on her face he never liked. It meant trouble. She was going to force him to do something he didn't want to do. Something else, he didn't want to do. He braced for the attack.

"Oliver," she said, her voice magically loving and patient and controlling at the same time, "have you decided who you're bringing Saturday?" She eyed him as if she was mentally making a list of all his newly-discovered imperfections. Was he dressed wrong? Or not standing in a dignified manner? Or having impure thoughts? Or what?

"Saturday?" he replied, contemplative but with a touch of amusement.

"My goodness, Oliver, you forgot." She sighed with an air of pained dismay and took his shoulders firmly, shaking her head with obvious disappointment. "The annual Queen Winter Gala. The social event of the year. For a select few. This Saturday. And you forgot. You always loved it. Before . . ."

"Oh, right. Right!" He smiled as best he could, trying not to look disinterested, which he most surely was. "Other things on my mind, mother. Walter's meeting and, you know, OTHER things." He hadn't forgot. He was hoping to avoid it. Five years on the island was preferable to a couple of hours in a starched tux, surrounded by a gaggle of boring billionaires talking business, swilling moldy grapes and salty fish eggs – better known as champagne and caviar.

"I see," Moira Queen said, relaxing somewhat, then glaring suspiciously at him. "So, don't keep me in suspense. Who are you bringing? Someone APPROPRIATE, I hope. Not like in the past, all those . . ." She sighed heavily without finishing, rolling her eyes.

He started to give her a reassuring smile, but at the last moment changed it to a mischievous one. He didn't want her to feel TOO comfortable. "It'll be a surprise, mother." He winked at her, while frantically trying to think of someone he could ask. The only name that came to him was Laurel, but that was, well, unlikely. Impossible, actually. After all, she was seeing Tommy.

Her expression changed from suspicion to concern. She started to speak but was interrupted by Walter coming down the stairs. "Sorry I'm holding things up, Oliver," he said apologetically, "but I got one of those tar-baby calls from the office."

"Your show," Oliver said, upbeat, "be as late as you want." But the expression on his face said, 'I couldn't care less if we kiss it off altogether.'

Walter stopped to give Moira a peck on the cheek. "We should be back in an hour or so, my dear," he said looking at his watch. "Maybe less, with Oliver's help."

"Well, don't forget," she replied, "the caterer needs some decisions today for Saturday." Her tone and expression said it wasn't a request.

"Of course." He turned to Oliver. "Shall we go?"

They left the house and slipped into the glove-leather back seat of the limousine. John Diggle got in the front with Milos, the driver. Oliver instantly felt uncomfortable. To him, riding in a limousine was like riding on a Rose Parade float: ostentatious and slightly humiliating. Not much fun, either. Somehow perversely amusing, though. The car began to move, smooth as silk and whisper quiet, as soon as their seatbelts were fastened. I should have taken my Harley, he thought, and met Walter there.

.

**2. . . . . . .**

"I appreciate you coming, Oliver," Walter said, sensing Oliver's brooding silence. "I know you aren't particularly interested in the business, but I thought Maurice would feel more . . . oh, comfortable, with Robert's son at the table. He's like that, you know."

"You're not close, I assume," Oliver said.

"Not at all. He's a close personal friend. We play cards every Thursday at the club. But we're not as close as he was to your father. He just has some quirks when it comes to business. I'm hoping you'll smooth them over a little."

"I'll do my best."

"Oh, he knows you're not interested in the business. So you really don't have to get involved in the negotiations. He understands. You see, his oldest son, Jeremiah, isn't interested in the family business, either. But he'll be there, too. Like you, for continuity."

"Really? That's great, actually," Oliver said, suddenly upbeat. "Jerry's a REALLY old friend. Bloodied his eye in pre-school." Laughs. "Haven't seen him in ages, though. Certainly not since I returned from the dead."

"Excellent!" Walter said, beaming. "I can feel a successful meeting in my bones."

"Funny I haven't seen him," Oliver said, "you know, since I've been back."

"Ah, yes. Maurice said something about him being overseas, doing something. Just got back, I believe."

"Knowing him, something involving wine and women. And trouble. Well, it'll be good to see him. We had a lot of good times over the . . ."

He was interrupted by Milos on the intercom. "Mr. Steele, appears we're being followed by a black SUV. Do you want me to take evasive action?" Oliver smiled, sensing Milos wanted to show off his impressive, newly-acquired, anti-terrorist driving skills.

Walter and Oliver turned and looked out the rear window. They saw the black SUV but couldn't see who was driving because of dark glass. It was so close and mimicking their movements so perfectly, it could have been a trailer.

"Just pull ahead, Milos," Walter said, "and see if they follow." They speeded up, leaving the SUV behind. But only for a few moments. It quickly matched their movement.

"Well, I guess that answers that," Oliver said.

"Yes," Walter agreed. "Please take evasive action, Milos." Before either he or Oliver could grab the restraints, the car accelerated and turned at the next corner, throwing them sideways.

"Wonder who they are," Oliver said.

"And what they want." The car abruptly turned another corner and accelerated again. Walter took out his cellphone and started dialing. "Huh . . ." he said, puzzled.

"What's wrong?"

"No signal."

"Must be out of range."

"Impossible. I've made calls here many times. Besides, it's a satellite phone; it makes calls ANYwhere. Bottom of the Mariana Trench to the top of Mount Everest . . . they advertise."

"Must be blocking it, somehow." Oliver turned and looked out the rear window again. "Right behind us. Keeping up with Milos can't be easy. They're good."

"Professionals, I'm sure," Walter said as the limousine moved onto the freeway and accelerated noticeably. Oliver guessed they were going well over a hundred. But it didn't do any good. "The SUV is gaining on us like we're standing still. I guess limousines are designed for comfort, not speed."

"Right," Oliver agreed. "We're definitely not going to outrun them."

Suddenly, the SUV accelerated and swerved into the lane next to them, paralleling them. But only briefly. It lunged forward and pulled in front of them, then accelerated so fast it seemed to disappear into the horizon. But not before dropping something – something black and rectangular with small canisters strapped to it.

"A bomb!" Oliver shouted, "Turn!" Milos, well-trained as he was, had already swerved to miss the SUV's little gift. But not soon enough.

There was a thunderous explosion under the right side, flames and dust shooting out in all directions. The sudden shock was like being hit by a speeding locomotive. The force threw Oliver and Walter in all directions, suddenly weightless as the limousine shot into the air, landing on its left side with a loud, scraping crunch, then rolling over and over and over across the freeway, being hit by frantically-braking cars, jumping a barrier on the side of the overpass they were on, flying through the air in a long, silent curve, trailing smoke, until they hit the freeway below with a bone-shattering crash, and began rolling over and over again, being hit by more cars, finally coming to rest against a massive concrete retaining wall with one last rattling thump. The limousine looked like a crumpled soda can, smoke pouring out everywhere.

.

**3. . . . . . .**

The police and fire trucks arrived surprisingly fast, but found little to salvage. In addition to the smoldering remains of the limousine, drenched in fire-retardant foam, the freeway was a jumble of mangled cars with a traffic jam stretching for miles in four directions.

"A lot of people were going to be late to work," Oliver said, surveying the destruction all around them. "Limousines may not be designed for speed, but they're sure as hell designed for protection." He dusted his clothes off and looked himself over. "Worst injury I got was a popped button." He tucked his shirt in, then, "You okay, Walter?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Walter said, looking a little woozy, "but I think I need to sit down before I fall down." Oliver helped him to sit on a small concrete structure near a drain inlet. "Thank you, Oliver. Uh, was anyone hurt? Are Milos and Mr. Diggle alright?"

"They're fine. Looking the car over, or what's left of it. And surprisingly, the police say no one was hurt, at least not seriously. No deaths, either."

"That's good. I'm very relieved." He bent over and held his head in his hands.

"Here comes the ambulance," Oliver said. "I'll see if . . ."

"No, I'll be alright. Let them tend to people who weren't in a bomb-proof Sherman tank. Like us." He sat up. Oliver thought he looked like a cadaver. "I called for a helicopter. No way to get a taxi in here."

"Good idea."

"Our first stop should be a hospital." Walter said. "Otherwise we'll have your mother all over us." They traded knowing looks. "Worse than the accident."

"NON-accident, I'd say," Oliver said, "but probably not as bad as the inquisition we're about to get. Here comes Detective Lance." My absolute favorite cop, he thought. Lance stopped in front of them and scowled.

"Here to arrest me for something, detective?" Oliver asked with boyish innocence. "For not getting killed, maybe?"

"It's a thought," Lance growled and turned toward Walter. "You need medical, Mr. Steele?"

"Thank you very much for your concern, Detective Lance," he replied, "but we're fine. I have a copter coming for us, so we should be . . ."

"Not so fast! I have a few questions. From the preliminary report I got, this looks a lot like attempted homicide. That's why they called me."

"Of course, Detective. Anything we can do to help."

"Well, you can start by telling me who wants you dead."

"I have ABSOLUTELY no idea . . ." Walter had asked himself the same question over and over, but came up with too many possibilities.

"Yeah, right. Well, start by telling me . . ."

While Lance was grilling Walter, Oliver started toward the limousine for a look.

"Don't go too far, Queen!" Lance barked. "I need a statement from you, too." He scoffed. "Hell, you were probably the target."

"Yeah, probably an EX-girlfriend with a grudge." That provoked another scowl from Lance.

When he reached the car, Milos and Diggle were crouched down, looking through the windows. "Totaled . . ." Diggle said, standing.

"Oh, I don't know," Oliver said with a completely straight face as he buffed a ragged dent with his sleeve, "a little Bondo and a coat of polish and she'll be as good a new." Milos's jaw dropped, then, "Don't worry, Milos, Walter'll buy a new one, even bigger and more-indestructible." Milos grinned, something he rarely did.

Pulling Oliver by the arm to the other side of the limousine, Diggle said, "What do you make of this?" Sprayed across the doors was a cryptic symbol, nothing like Oliver had ever seen. Somewhere between Egyptian hieroglyphs, Chinese characters and Mayan glyphs, he thought.

"Did you see who did it?"

"There, first time I looked."

"Huh . . ." Oliver muttered as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a few shots. "I have a gut feeling it wasn't put there by a teenage tagger having little fun. It means something."

"Something deadly, I suspect," Diggle added.

"Yeah, doubtful a love letter."

.

**4. . . . . . .**

By the time they left the hospital, the staff was in a killing mood. Moira had arrived in Queen-Bitch-of-the-Universe mode, covering her fear. Ordering staff around, demanding the hospital administrator be present, demanding the world's-best specialists be flown in, demanding . . . well, non-stop demanding. Oliver suspected they were lucky to get out alive; being a longtime generous hospital benefactor and a member of the Board of Directors, only goes so far with ruffled staff.

When they got home, Oliver said he was tired and went to his room. As soon as no one was looking, he and Diggle slipped out the back and headed for the abandoned Queen factory, his base of operations.

"Personally," Diggle said. "I'm surprised we're still alive."

"Yeah, me too," Oliver said. "I bet someone else is MORE surprised."

"And disappointed."

"Well, not so disappointed that they didn't have time to come back and leave us a friendly little note," Oliver said as he sent the pictures he took to a computer via WIFI. Instantly, a picture of the mysterious symbol appeared on a computer display. "So, any ideas?"

Diggle leaned forward, shook his head slowly. "Beats the Twinkies out of me."

"Yeah, me too. But it means SOMETHING to someone. Something important."

"But what?"

"Let's find out."

For the next several hours, they combed the internet searching every foreign script they could find for a match. They looked at current languages and ancient, western and eastern and everything in-between. They even checked fake languages, invented for fiction or movies or video games. Nothing they saw looked even vaguely similar. Frustrated, they soon discovered that Google wasn't as helpful with images as it was with text.

"Why would somebody leave a message no one recognizes?" Diggle wondered.

"They wouldn't. They left it for someone who DOES know. And my guess: it's a warning. For someone."

"Well, if it isn't you, it has to be Steele. I mean, it was only the two of you and you're not it. You think he knows?"

"Oh, he knows, alright." Oliver said, nodding. "But he never saw it."

"So their message never got delivered. They failed."

"Not really. One man's failure is another man's success. Mine."

"Except it doesn't mean anything to you. So it's a blob of useless hen-scratch. Unless you know a wizard with a crystal ball."

Oliver stared into space and slapped Diggle on the shoulder. "Do I ever!"

.

**5. . . . . . .**

Oliver stopped in front of the open door, tapped lightly on the jamb and projected as much charm as he could. Felicity Smoak, sitting in a semi-dark room surrounded by blinking computers and glowing displays, raised her head, looked surprised for an instant, smiled as if she knew a deep dark secret, then settled on looking expectant.

"I remembered to knock this time," he said.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Queen," she said, then looked suspicious. "And what thoroughly fascinating mystery do you have for me to solve this time?" She smiled.

"Well, now that you mention it," he said, sitting in the chair next to her, "there just might be a LITTLE something you could do. If you have the time, of course." He reached in his pocket and handed her a flash drive. "Could you tell me what this is?"

"Uh, a USB flash drive," she said with a straight face and a slightly condescending tone. "Sometimes called a thumb drive or a . . ."

He smiled and interrupted her. "I meant what's ON it."

"Of course. Just a little geek humor." She plugged the drive into the closet USB port and viewed it on one of the displays. "Huh . . . fascinating, as expected. Looks like some kind of ancient pictogram, but none I'm familiar with."

"I have no doubt you can . . ."

"So, what exactly do you want to know?" she interrupted.

"Anything you can tell me. What language. Uh, translation would be nice. Anything. Everything."

"When do you need it?"

"Whenever you can. Just one thing . . . um, could this be just between us?' He looked pained. "Sorry, complicated to explain."

"Another gift for a friend?" she said with a smirk. "I am to serve." She smoothly moved her hand to her forehead, then to her lips, then to her chest, bowing slightly.

Oliver stood up. "Fantastic! Let me know when you find something. And, uh, many thanks." He started for the door, then stopped and turned. "I'll suggest a raise to Accounting, too."

"Oh, in that case, you don't have to knock next time. Or ever." She smiled as he left.

.

**6. . . . . . .**

Tommy Merlyn and Laurel Lance were waiting in the foyer, holding hands, when Oliver came through the door. They lunged and hugged him.

"We were so worried when we heard about the accident," Laurel said, her voice noticeably trembling with concern. "It was all over the news. We thought the worst."

"But you look like you just got back from a spa," Tommy said. "Not a scratch."

"Sorry to disappoint," Oliver said, "but Walter and I were in a NASA-approved re-entry capsule capable of crashing on Venus without breaking an egg." He laughed, trying to hide any telltale emotion from Laurel still hugging him.

She let go. "Don't make fun," she said. "You could've been killed."

"Yeah," Tommy said, trying to look concerned, "or worse. It sure would've thrown a wet towel on the festivities Saturday."

"You men!" Laurel said. "You joke about everything."

"Only when we survive," Oliver said, trying to calm her. Then, wanting to change the subject, "So, uh, you're coming on Saturday? Both of you?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Tommy said, "now that you're back. Wasn't the same without you. Nobody got drunk, except me."

"You're NOT planning on getting drunk this year, are you," Laurel said. A statement, not a question.

"Uh, no need. I have a REAL date this year."

"As opposed to . . ." She began, before Oliver jumped to Tommy's rescue.

"Say, I really appreciate you guys coming by to see how I am, but I have to run. Meeting Jerry Castle in about . . ." looking at his watch, ". . . ten minutes ago."

"Jerry!" Tommy said, "haven't seen him in . . . I don't know when. Heard he was out of the country."

"Yeah," Oliver said, "just got back. Say, why don't you two come? Be just like old times."

"That WOULD be great," Tommy said, looking suddenly uncomfortable, "but we already have plans."

"Dinner," Laurel said, "with my father."

"Oh, well, another time, then," Oliver said. "Besides, Jerry'll be here Saturday, cummerbund and tails . . . and two or three dates. Just like old times." He walked Tommy and Laurel to the door.

"Be careful, Ollie," Laurel said, giving him a quick hug. He and Tommy briefly locked eyes.

.

**7. . . . . . .**

Oliver arrived at The Iron Works, once upon a time his favorite place to make whoopee with Jeremiah Castle. A noisy, unpolished place, a former steel-fabrication shop masquerading as an upscale, sometime-scandalous restaurant. Small portions, high prices, was the joke. Nothing had changed in five years. And locating Jerry hadn't changed, either: he was at the center of a swirl of activity, waiters coming and going, waitresses coming but NOT going, friends and wannabe friends circling, and lots for pretty maids all in a row.

"Well," Oliver said, having entered the eye of the storm, "I see nothing's changed."

Jeremiah looked up, that familiar smug look of excited self-pleasure he always had, and said, "Oliver! My bestest fun-buddy! How's your bird?" His legendary standard greeting that no one understood. He jumped up, energetically shaking Oliver's hand with his right while hugging him with the left. Oliver thought he looked the same as ever: tall and lean and youthful, bubbling with fun, dressed somewhere between affluent Ivy League and Skid Row punk, mostly black and chrome; sort of a rockstar, slumming. He shooed everyone away and they sat down.

"It's passed five," Oliver said, looking at his watch, "and you're still sober." He looked amused. And surprised.

"Ah yes. Getting old, my olden friend. Getting old. But look at you! You look GREAT, given all I've heard you've been through."

"Looks can be deceiving," he said, thinking, more than you could EVER imagine. "You don't look too shabby yourself. So, what you been up to? Heard you've been out of the country. Not a business trip, I hope!"

"Perish the thought! Wash out your mouth with Draino. No, doing something you should try sometime." He rolled his eyes and motioned for the waitress. "Just spent a few months at a monastery in the mountains of Thailand."

"You, in a monastery? Meditating on celibacy? Don't make me laugh!" He ordered a Manhattan from the waitress.

"A special monastery, Oliver. VERY special. Trains mind-bogglingly gorgeous young ladies how to, you know, PLEASURE gentlemen. I, uh, volunteered to, uh, TEST and evaluate their progress."

Oliver looked at him askew and frowned, "Must have been monumentally hard work . . ."

"Oh, an agonizing grinder! But, you know, someone has to do it." He poked Oliver in the shoulder. "I can set you up. Anytime. Just let me know . . . Unless, of course, you and Laurel have patched things up. Understand she's sort of . . ."

"We're friends these days, just friends. Not lovers. And we're both comfortable with the arrangement," he lied. "Besides, she's seeing Tommy."

"Tommy? Really? The rascal!"

"Really," Oliver said, trying to hide his emotions from someone who knew him much too well. Then, wanting to change the subject, he said, "Uh, sorry to hear your folks split up. Must be painful."

"Not really. Dad is always busy with the business, so ignores my useless lifestyle. But mom had nothing to do but run the house . . . and me. You know, the warden. So now, I only see her on holidays. A MUCH better arrangement." He finished his drink and waved for another.

"Totally understand. Have a bit of the same problem."

"So I heard. But more complicated. Lost a father, gained a stepfather. Must be, uh, awkward, to say the least. I mean, Moira and Walter . . ."

"Not at all," Oliver said, putting his glass down. "When mother's happy, she doesn't watch me as much. And we live under the same roof. So when she's happy, I'm happy. If you get my drift."

"Indeed I do!" Jeremiah thought for a moment, then, "You need a place of your own, my friend. Like me. A temple of debauchery."

Oliver laughed. "I see you still have a one-track mind. But I have a secret hideout, no one knows about. Most especially mother."

"Your Fortress of Solitude," Jeremiah said in a melodramatic super-hero voice, "where you plot the overthrow of the useless establishment."

"What are you talking about, Jerr! We ARE the useless establishment." Or, at least YOU still are, Oliver thought to himself, unless you're secretly Batman. He reached for the menu. "I'm hungry. So, what's good?"

"The girls," Jeremiah said with that familiar roguish twinkle in his eye, "the girls."

.

**8. . . . . . .**

Felicity called the next morning. Oliver rearranged his schedule and was standing in her office twenty minutes later, holding a gold-wrapped box of VERY expensive chocolates.

He sat down and set the box on her desk. "They're kosher," he said, not sure whether to smile or look serious.

"How thoughtful," she said, obviously impressed. "But with chocolates like these, I'd eat them if they were made with hydrogenated PIG fat." They both laughed. She cleared her throat, then, "So, your mysterious symbol . . ."

"I'm all ears."

"Okay. Well, I have to say, this was one of the more interesting searches I've ever done. So, here goes:

"It's an ancient form of Chinese writing, called Jiaguwen. But it was difficult to recognize because it's been converted from traditional character form to a modern pictogram by someone, sort of a logo, with a lumpy box around it. Kind of like an Egyptian cartouche. It refers to an ancient myth, the story of Kua Fu. Sort of a Chinese Icarus. Seems he chased the sun trying to catch it and got burned. It's used to signify a person who fails to obtain his goal because he greatly overestimates himself. Not a compliment."

"Icarus . . . interesting," he said, but doesn't help me figure out who sent it.

"And it has a modern usage," she continued. "It's used by an international criminal organization as a warning. A warning that someone's getting too close to something they're not supposed to, and they're going to get burned. It sort of means 'Back off, sucker!' – you know – 'or else.'"

"Huh," was all Oliver could say as he thought. Obviously Walter was getting too close to something. But what? "Uh, you wouldn't happen to know the name of the organization, would you?"

"That's the funny thing. Their warning IS their name: Kua Fu. They're sort of in the shake-down business. Just as mobs make small businesses pay protection money to stay in business, Kua Fu does the same, only to really big multinational corporations. Pay up, or else . . . something bad will happen."

"What?" he asked. She just shrugged.

"Well, Miss Smoak," Oliver said, snapping out of his thought cloud, "as always, you greatly exceeded my expectations." He stood. "My undying thanks aren't enough." He smiled, "I'll definitely talk to Accounting. Maybe a well-earned vacation at the company villa outside Rome, too." He smiled, bowed slightly and turned toward the door.

Before she could respond, though, he stopped and turned back to her. "You know, there's something else you could do for me."

"Your wish is my command, Sahib."

"If you're not doing anything this Saturday, would you like to go to the Queen Winter Gala with me?"

"Really! I'd LOVE to . . ." she replied, then sighed, ". . . but you MUST know company regulations, Section 1423.17.3, Subsection 45.3, Paragraph D, which prohibits employee fraternization, including dating, etc., etc., etc. I could be fired. Or worse."

Oliver just shrugged. "Last time I looked, I'm not exactly an employee." He smiled. "I'll pick you up at eight." He turned and walked out. I wonder if mother will consider her 'appropriate', he thought with a chuckle.

.

**9. . . . . . .**

Later, Oliver and Diggle spent hours searching for more information about Kua Fu, but found little of value. Only that it seemed to have a preference for high-tech companies, the bigger, the wealthier, the more cutting-edge – the better. Suddenly, Oliver looked up from his computer display and stared into space.

"Icarus," he said, "I knew something sounded familiar."

"What?" Diggle asked.

"The man Walter and I were going to meet, Maurice Castle, is owner and CEO of Castle Enterprises, a multinational holding company. Makes Queen Consolidated look like a pop stand. And the crown-jewel of their holdings is a global electronics corporation called Icarus Technologies."

"Sounds a tad coincidental."

"Yeah, especially when you realize they have their finger in every high-tech pie worldwide, whether it's Microsoft or Apple or Nokia or Samsung or you-name-it." Oliver stopped and leaned back in his chair. "MORE than a little coincidental, I'd say."

"Let me guess, Castle's on dad's list, too." Diggle folded his arms.

"Give the man a prize . . ."

.

**10. . . . . . .**

Oliver crouched in the dark across the street from the world headquarters of Icarus Technologies, an enormous complex of monolithic gray buildings located just outside Starling City in an industrial district, affectionately called Silicon Gulch. He was dressed in his green leather hooded disguise, carrying his bow and quiver of arrows. He quickly discovered breaking in was more difficult than he'd expected. And he'd expected it to be difficult, just not this difficult. He suspected they had a lot to protect. And hide.

On the upside, it turned out to be a perfect night for a visit – something was up. Shortly after midnight, limousines began arriving and entering by a hidden subterranean entrance. Something important was happening and he intended to join the festivities. He eventually got in by hanging from the underside of one of the limousines. Then he had to find where the meeting was taking place. A surprisingly simple matter. He discovered that a panel on the wall in every room connected to a facility-wide tracking system; it allowed anyone to be located at all times once they were signed in. He simply looked for a clump of people in the mostly vacated facility. To his surprise, the meeting was being held, not in a conference room, but in a manufacturing lab in the third basement.

The strange location, however, made it easy for him to attend, unseen. Above the cavernous lab were a number of control rooms, all with observation windows and intercoms; from one of the dark rooms, he watched through the windows and listened via the intercom. He saw a dozen or so well-dressed men and women enter and sit at a round table. Maurice Castle was the only person he recognized. It soon became clear why they were meeting in the lab; an electronic device was being demonstrated.

". . . and as you've just seen," Castle concluded, beaming, "this marvelous technology will allow us to manipulate the stock market, or businesses or governments or whatever we want, worldwide. Without detection. And we don't have any competition, and never will, once we activate it. In short, we're poised to virtually control the entire . . ."

He was interrupted by a chubby middle-aged man in a black suit. "But what of Queen Consolidated!" the man shouted, obviously agitated. "And that bastard, Steele! Aren't they working on something similar?"

"Or something to block it?" another man added.

"Yes, but . . ." Castle started to respond, but was interrupted again by an attractive young Asian woman in a tight, somewhat revealing dress.

"You were supposed to ELIMINATE Steele," she said forcefully, "or get his evidence and destroy it. Preferably both! But you failed MISERABLY!" Rumbling agreement arose. Castle remained calm. Even smiled confidently.

"A minor delay, I can assure you, Ms. Hsu," Castle replied in a somewhat condescending tone. "Next time, we won't . . ." To his obvious displeasure, he was once again interrupted. But, this time, not by another person, but by a booming alarm: INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALLERT! the robotic voice repeated calmly, over and over. Suddenly, uniformed security guards burst into the room and began scanning in all directions, rifles extended. The people at the table immediately froze.

"What's the meaning of this!" Castle barked, visibly annoyed.

One of the guards spotted Oliver and pointed up, shouting, "There he is! It's . . . it's the VIGILANTE!" He immediately fired at him. The glass shattered and exploded in all directions, but stopped the bullet. Oliver was thankful for explosion-resistant laboratory glass. He dropped to the floor and rolled as a volley of bullets strafed the room.

"No, you idiots!" Castle roared, "I want the son-of-a-bitch alive! I want to cut him open and see what makes him tick."

"Tranqs!" a guard shouted. Oliver heard the clinking of metallic rifle sounds echo around the room. Being dissected by some mad scientist, while Castle looked on, somehow didn't appeal to him. He decided it was time to leave. And fast. He pulled an arrow out of his quiver, stood up quickly, and shot into the room below. Then he ducked down to avoid a swarm of tranquilizer darts and braced himself. When he heard the arrow hit and the blast that followed, he reached into a pocket, pulled out a tiny gas filter and slipped it on his nose.

After the coughing stopped, he stood up and looked down at the room below. Everyone, including the guards, were unconscious. He intentionally left through the lab because he wanted to 'borrow' a laptop or a tablet or a smartphone or even an old-fashioned piece of paper with scribbles on it. To his surprise, though, there was nothing.

"Talk about a total lack of trust!" he chuckled to himself as he disappeared into the maze of dark service tunnels and utility shafts.

.

**11. . . . . . .**

The next day, Oliver searched Walter's study at the mansion, including the wall-safe, but found nothing. Specifically, the evidence Ms. Hsu wanted. He concluded it must be in Walter's office at Queen Consolidated, or he carried it with him at all times. It was going to take more snooping to find the goods.

He left the study and headed toward his bedroom, plotting his next move. When he turned the corner, though, he bumped into Thea. To his surprise, her face lit up like a Christmas tree, eyes twinkling, grinning from ear to ear. She leaped at him, wrapped her arms around him and gave him an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek.

"Boy, what'd I do to deserve that?"

She took him by the arm and escorted him down the hall. "You blabbed to Jerry that I was going stag Saturday," she bubbled. "That's what you did."

"And . . ."

She looked at him with a look of deep pity. "Sometimes you're as dense as a brick, brother. And . . . he called me up and asked me to go with him. Isn't that great!"

"Uh, isn't he a little, you know, OLD for you?" he said, preparing to get hit.

"He's YOUR age, for Pete's sake," she said as she punched him in the arm. "Not my friggin' grandfather's age."

Oliver cringed. "You know what I mean," he said, squirming. "A little too, you know, WORLDLY for you. I mean, if my memory serves me, last time he brought, you know, hookers. One on each arm."

She looked at him. He saw pity, again. "He's all grown up, Ollie," she said, "and so am I." She hugged him again, then skipped down the hall to her room.

Oliver just took a deep breath and mumbled, "Wait 'til mother finds out . . ."

.

**12. . . . . . .**

Oliver reached out and pushed the doorbell. Inside, he heard a familiar male voice say, 'Open the pod door, Hal.' A moment later, the door opened. Standing there was Felicity Smoak, without glasses. A DAZZLING Felicity Smoak, he thought.

"Wow!" was all he could say. She was dressed in a cobalt-blue evening gown which was dignified, elegant and formal. And VERY sexy, he thought. Add to that a knock-out hairdo with subtle makeup and she looked like a glamorous movie starlet. Better! Maybe he wouldn't have recognized her on the street, but he sure would have NOTICED her. "Wow," he said again, strangely tongue-tied, "didn't you used to be Felicity Smoak, Director of the IT Department at Queen Consolidated world headquarters?"

She gave him that slightly-amused, slightly-calculating look of hers and said, "Yes. And hopefully, I still WILL be after tonight."

"Walter will probably give you a promotion after tonight," he said, thinking, he probably won't even recognize her. But what about mother . . .

"Well, Mr. Queen," interrupting his silent musing, "we don't want to be late."

"It's ALWAYS good to be FASHIONABLY late," he replied with a flamboyant sweep of his right hand. "And call me Oliver." He stopped, thought for a moment and said, "On second thought, call me Ollie." With that, he took her arm and guided her toward the elevator.

.

**13. . . . . . .**

The relatively small, but mostly upscale crowd of guests, stopped talking briefly and turned to look when Oliver and Felicity entered the cavernous living room – a room the family seldom used precisely because it was so cavernous. Their first stop was Moira and Walter, who were talking with a jovial Maurice Castle. Moira watched them intently, like an accountant taking inventory. He couldn't tell whether she approved or disapproved of Felicity.

"My, aren't you a lovely couple," Moira said without expression, facial or vocal. "Aren't you going to introduce us, Oliver?"

"Of course, mother," he replied. "This is Felicity Smoak . . ." He couldn't help but notice the slight look of surprise on Walter's face; he DIDN'T recognize her! ". . . and, Felicity, this is my mother . . . and I think you know Walter . . . and this is an old family friend, Maurice Castle." Everyone smiled politely and shook hands.

"Walter," Moira said coolly, "how do you know Miss Smoak?"

"Oh, uh, she runs the IT department at work," he replied, then smiled, "and my most beautiful employee, apparently." He glanced nervously at Moira and added, ". . . and my most valuable, too."

"Employee . . ." Moira sighed. Oliver decided it was time to leave. Except Castle grabbed his arm.

"Very sorry I missed you and Walter the other day," Castle said with a mixture of warmth and formality. "Very upsetting."

I bet! Oliver thought with his own mixture of emotions: bitterness and amusement. "Not as sorry as we were," he said. "We can only wonder who was responsible." He smiled knowingly at Castle.

"Well, I was VERY relieved that neither of you were injured." I bet! Oliver thought, again. "And Jeremiah was SO looking forward to seeing you."

"Well, we got together later," Oliver said, "and I'm going to see if I can find him in this crowd."

"Oh, he's here. Somewhere . . ." Castle glanced around the room.

"I'm sure. Uh, well, I can see we've interrupted your conversation," Oliver quickly interjected, "so we'll let you talk while we check out the, uh, munchies." He took Felicity by the hand and did his best to gracefully disappear. He spotted Tommy and Laurel talking with Jeremiah and Thea. He wound his way through the crowd toward them, stopping briefly for champagne.

"For an old family friend," Felicity said, "he sounded more like a mortician."

"Yeah," Oliver agreed, thinking, closer than you know.

"Oliver!" Tommy shouter over the rumble as he saw them approaching. When they reached them, he said, "And who have you been hiding all these years?" That led to another round of introductions, much easier than the first.

"Well, Oliver," Jeremiah said with a broad smile, "I can see five years on a tropical island didn't dampen your taste for beautiful women!"

"Nor your stay in that monastery," Oliver said, glancing protectively at Thea.

"Men!" Laurel said to Thea. "All they ever do is talk about women, like we're something you buy at the five and dime by the pound."

"Or the kilo," Thea replied, very gently poking Jeremiah.

Tommy suddenly turned to Laurel, looked concerned, then smiled – a little helplessly, Oliver thought – and said, "I'm through shopping. Forever!" She took his hand. Oliver lost his smile. Jeremiah noticed.

"Hey, we're almost out of bubbly," Jeremiah said. "I'll find that fugitive from the Braille Institute masquerading as a waiter." He looked around. "Ah, there he is. Back in a sec." He disappeared into the crowd.

"So, Felicity, how do you know Ollie?" Laurel asked.

"Well, actually," she replied, "he, uh, sort of EMPLOYS me."

"Really? At Queen or . . ." Suddenly the lights flickered out with a series of muffled pops.

The resulting darkness was interrupted by what sounded like firecrackers going off and intense flashes of bluish-white light illuminating the room from all directions with dizzying stroboscopic effect. There were shouts and terrified screams, hysterical people pushing and shoving, trying to get to the exits, many crawling on the floor through broken glasses fearing a terrorist attack.

Oliver grabbed Felicity with one hand and Thea with the other. "Tommy," he shouted, "Grab Laurel and hold on to me. I'll get us to safety." When he felt Tommy's hand he started moving. "Stay low!"

He headed across the room using the brief flashes of light to orient himself until he reached the door under the stairs leading to the basement. Once he got them all through the door, he closed it and they started down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, he took a couple of flashlights off hooks on the wall.

He turned on both lights and handed one to Tommy. "Everyone alright?" he asked. They were.

"What's going on?" Thea cried.

"I don't know," Oliver replied, "But I have to go back and make sure mother and Walter are safe." He ignored their protests and started up the stairs, then stopped and turned. "Keep them safe, Tommy. Okay?"

"You got it. And be careful, my friend, we just got you back."

"Careful, Ollie . . ." Thea, Laurel and Felicity all whispered in perfect unison as Oliver ran up the stairs and disappeared through the door at the top.

.

**14. . . . . . .**

Oliver knew the disturbance wasn't a prank or a clever robbery. Or a terrorist. He knew it had something to do with the car bombing, and with Kua Fu. He could feel it in his bones. But what? When he got upstairs, the hysteria was still in progress. People screaming, crying, running and crawling in all directions. The bangs and flashes were still going on. He couldn't tell whether he was hearing gunshots or firecrackers. He hoped the latter. He ran up the main stairway, which was empty. Once at the top, he ran to his room and quickly changed into his vigilante regalia. He'd brought everything home with him that night because he wanted to do some searching after the festivities and didn't want to have to go all the way across town to the factory. Fortunate, he thought.

He went directly to Walter's study. If it was Kua Fu, that was the first place they'd go, looking for the evidence. He stopped at the door and listened. Something was rustling, like papers. He stepped quietly through the door, crossed the anteroom, and into the study. There was someone in the dark, bent over the desk, silhouetted against the terrace doors, slightly illuminated by Walter's laptop computer, which he was using.

"Looking for something?" Oliver said calmly in his electrified vigilante voice.

The person instantly stood up. And smiled. Rather wickedly, Oliver thought. It was Jeremiah. Oliver was stunned for a moment. Jeremiah Castle. One of my oldest and best friends, he thought. What was all that about not getting involved in the family business? Like father, like son! He felt sick. And angry.

Jeremiah yanked a flash drive from the laptop and maneuvered around the desk. Oliver followed him like his shadow, keeping the desk between them. Their dance around the desk finally stopped and the two men stood silent, staring at each other.

"My, my," Jeremiah said with amused venom, "but you certainly get around. Father will be delighted." He started to put the flash drive in a pocket.

"I wouldn't do that," Oliver said. Jeremiah stopped and laughed.

"Ooo, I'm so afraid, Mr. Vigilante, sir," he said with thick sarcasm. "Are you going to shoot me with one of your big, bad arrows?"

"Depends. On you," Oliver said, reaching for an arrow.

"I wouldn't," Jeremiah said, suddenly dead-serious, pointing a gun at Oliver. "I don't think you can get an arrow off nearly as fast as I can pull the trigger."

Oliver froze. "So why don't you tell me what you're after that's so important," he said, also serious.

"Just this," Jeremiah replied, holding the flash drive up. Oliver couldn't help but smirk for a moment remembering his encounter with Felicity.

"A USB flash drive," he said, mimicking Felicity as best he could. "Sometimes called a thumb drive or a . . ."

"Funny," came the unamused reply.

"If you're going to kill me with your big bad gun, it can't possibly hurt to tell me what's on it."

"Now wouldn't you just LOVE to know, you freakazoid creep!" Jeremiah said, sneering confidently. Oliver thought he was distracted and reached for an arrow. But Jeremiah clicked the hammer back. "Go ahead, see who's faster. I can't wait to rip that stupid hood off and see who you are." Then Oliver heard a gunshot and braced for the impact, but felt nothing. Instead, Jeremiah looked surprised, dropped the gun from one hand and the flash drive from the other, both landing on the desk, and slumped to the floor.

Behind Jeremiah, standing in the doorway at the other side of the room was someone holding a smoking gun. The last person in the world he would have expected: Felicity Smoak.

"What are YOU doing here?" he asked in his vigilante voice as he moved toward her, picking up the flash drive on the way. He stopped next to her. "A derringer," he said. "You always go to parties with a gun?"

"In this city? Are you kidding!"

"I guess I should thank you."

"Oh, you would have gotten him. I saw you starting to drop like a rock. You're like a pinball in an arcade. On steroids. And he seemed a little, you known, tipsy. You weren't really in any danger. I just figured, better safe than sorry."

"Well, just the same, you could have been . . ." He heard a faint squeak behind him. With lightening reflexes, he pushed Felicity to the side and down as a gun fired and a bullet whizzed past the space where she had just been. He spun around, grabbing an arrow as he dropped to the floor, and pulled back. Jeremiah was standing there with the gun, his finger squeezing the trigger again. Oliver let the arrow go. It whistled through the air, knocking the gun out of his hand.

Jeremiah screamed in pain and closed his hand into a tight bloody fist. "Until we meet again, creep!" he said, then ran out the terrace door, disappearing into the night.

"Until . . ." Probably thinks I don't know who he is, Oliver thought, then turned to Felicity, taking her hand and helping her up.

"Sorry," he said. "You aren't hurt, are you, uh, MISS."

"Miss!" she said, rolling her eyes, "why so formal, Ollie!" He stood stunned, his mouth agape, feeling like a fool.

"You . . . know?" he gulped. "How?"

She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You silly men are all alike. Don't you know women have an eighth sense? I could recognized you in that outfit a block away: your build, your walk, your body language, that mysterious aura you always project and, and . . . well, you know, that intoxicating cologne you have on." She took a deep breath. "And thanks for saving my life. Really!"

"You probably would have got him again," Oliver said, pointing at the derringer in her hand.

"Oooh, I don't think so. It only holds one tiny bullet. So, thanks . . . I guess." She impulsively wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips, long and wet and passionate.

He looked surprised, then smiled, "You're most welcome . . . I guess." Then he returned the kiss. "But why aren't you with the others?"

"Oh, your sister got worried about your mother and ran upstairs. We all followed. Got separated in the dark."

"So much for staying safe . . ." he sighed. "So, where do we go from here, Ms. Smoak?"

"I'd say you could use a sidekick, Mr. Queen . . . you know, someone to help you clean the scum and villainy off the streets of Starling City."

"I already have a sidekick."

"Well, then we can be the Three Musketeers. One for all, and all that."

He held up the flash drive and said, "Well, I might need help with this. Probably encrypted up the wazzoo."

"Any time, pahd-ner?" she said in a REALLY bad John Wayne imitation.

He stopped and listened. "But right now we'd better get back before we're missed . . ." Outside, they heard police sirens and voices. ". . . or get caught."

"Of course. But you might consider," she said, "a, uh, costume change first." She pointed at his outfit.

"Right. Black tie and tails coming up."

"And we'd better get our story straight," she said, "you know, where we were and all."

"Yeah, don't want Detective Lance all over me. Or you." He took her hand and pulled. "Come on. I have an idea. I'll tell you somewhere less conspicuous." We probably have a lot less to explain, he thought to himself, than Jerry, having to explain a hole in his back and one in his hand. He was suddenly saddened at the thought of having lost an old friend to – what? – the dark side. It was going to be interesting socializing with him in the future. Difficult, too. He was even more saddened wondering where it was all going to end. And how . . .

He snapped out of his momentary brooding and pulled Felicity down the hall. "We better hurry," he said.

"Uh, not to sound crass or anything, Mr. Queen," Felicity said as they ran, "but do I still get the corporate villa outside Rome?"

"I don't see why not, Ms. Smoak," he replied with what she thought was a slightly devilish tone. "And I don't suppose you'd like some company? It's a REALLY big villa."

"My goodness, Ollie, what would your mother say?" She giggled. "Would she approve?"

"I certainly hope not."


End file.
